


(im)Perfectly Formed

by mokuyoubi



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Realism, Mystery, Nygmobblepot, Season 4 Rewrite, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: Diverging from canon during their encounter at the docks at the end of season 3, Edward Nygma finds himself entangled by the mystery that is Oswald Cobblepot's enduring ability to cheat death. In his search for answers, Ed looks to ancient myths of a creature who was both man and god. But the history has been warped as it has passed from the lips of one, to the ears of another.A retelling of season 4 where Ed was never frozen, and is forced to come to terms with his feelings for Oswald, and Oswald is forced to come to terms with something far greater still.Rating will change.





	1. The Breach

It all began on the docks, which given their history, was the only place it could have begun. Which time at the docks was less clear, in retrospect.

Ed appreciated symmetry, and the Gotham weather obliged him. When they arrived, a light rain had broken out, dusting them both in crystalline droplets. It was the perfect parallel from the last time they’d stood here together.

“Here we are again.” Ed inhaled deeply of salty tang on the air, and couldn’t contain a burst of pleased laughter. “Wow. I have to tell you, this feels really great.”

“Glad I could help,” Oswald muttered, words punctuated by the scuffle and thump of his gait. He possessed a muted dignity, all things considered, walking with his head held tall. At the edge of the pier he stopped and spun around with his usual theatricality, to sneer at Ed.

Ed raised his brows in amusement. “Any last words?”

“I’m done wasting my breath.” Oswald stood up straight, shoulders thrown back, defiant to the last. 

“You’re not going to beg for your life?” Ed asked. “No empty declarations of love in the vain attempt of staying my hand?”

Oswald scoffed. “So predictable, Ed.” He wielded the name like a weapon, and Ed flinched. “It must drive you mad, not being able to finish what you started.”

Ed’s tongue pressed to the back of his clenched teeth in annoyance. He wouldn’t allow Oswald to get a rise out of him now. Not when he was about to win. Again. He raised the gun, steadying the tremor in his arm. “What are you talking about? I’m going to _kill you_ Oswald. I think that’s finishing things.”

“I suppose time will tell.” Oswald was remarkably aloof for someone about to die, and Ed found it unsettling. His aim wavered and he lowered the gun to his side. Oswald gave him a serene smile, as if he knew just the effect he was having.

“Oh whatever,” Ed growled. “I’m not letting you ruin this for me. You don’t have anything to say, but I do. Goodbye, Oswald.” He brought the gun up again, aiming at the dead centre of Oswald’s chest, and before he had time to second-guess his actions, or even think, really, he’d squeezed the trigger. 

It was startlingly loud. That was the only excuse for the way the world went silent--no lapping of water against the dock, or the cries of the birds that took flight at the gunshot, or the distant horns of passing boats--Ed watched, stomach in freefall, as the blood poured thick and free from Oswald’s wound. 

All at once, a sensation not unlike panic overtook him, making his pulse hammer in his head. The desire to reach out and staunch the flow of blood swept through him, and instead, he squeezed the trigger again, and again. Oswald staggered with each shot, until the clip was empty, and then without further dramatics, tumbled backwards off the pier.

“N--” Ed bit his lip on the word before it could fully escape, and feel to his knees, hands wrapped around the edge. Oswald’s body was limp, eyes closed, expression almost… _peaceful_ as he sunk beneath the red waves. Ed drew a breath and exhaled slowly, over and over, but try as he might, calm would not come.

Where was the satisfaction? The sense of accomplishment? Where was the implacable knowledge that he’d done what was right--what was _necessary_? He might have struggled the last time he’d sent Oswald to his death, but that was only because he’d failed. Now there was no mistaking Oswald’s death. He’d disappeared from out of sight, but the amount of blood still blossoming on the water confirmed it. Now Ed’s transformation would be complete.

Right?

The drifting sound of Oswald’s mocking laughter was just a trick of the wind.

* 

“Ed?” Lucius rubbed his eyes with one hand and made what he probably thought was a subtle reach for the gun under his pillow with the other. Ed supposed he should be flattered that a man like Lucius Fox would go out and purchase a gun, and then go so far as to keep it under his pillow, all as a result of their recent run-ins.

“Looking for this, Foxy?” Ed held up the gun and gave it a little shake. Then, just to put Lucius at ease, he set it down on the dresser. Well out of reach for Lucius, but without the immediate threat of it being held in Ed’s hand.

Lucius shook his head with a bemused expression. “What are you doing here?”

Ed hopped to his feet, pacing the length of the runner that lay between dresser and bed in Lucius small room. He gripped his hands behind his back, head bowed. “I killed Oswald. Again. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I’m...going to need a drink,” Lucius finally pronounced. He pushed back his covers and got to his feet, and to his credit he didn’t even look in the direction of the gun as he led the way out of the room. 

In the kitchen, Lucius got down a bottle of tequila, grabbed a tumbler, and then reached for a second with a questioning glance at Ed. Ed shook his head in dismissal, and Lucius poured just one glass for himself, took a seat at the island stool, and looked expectantly at Ed. “I’m all ears.”

And true to his word, Lucius listened patiently as Ed spilled the whole story. From ending up in the delicate care of The Court of Owls, to Oswald’s miraculous reappearance, their truce, their attempts on one another’s life, and the fateful trip to the docks. How it all made sense now, why he’d struggled to find his footing as the Riddler, when Oswald had never actually died in the first place.

“But here I am, _again_.” Ed clenched and released his fists in frustration. “He’s gone and I--” The words dried up on his tongue.

“You miss him,” Foxy finished for him. Ed made a sound of disgust, but Lucius didn’t look impressed. “Just like last time. Ed…” Lucius drew a hesitant breath. “You’re a smart guy, so I’m having trouble understanding why you thought doing the same thing as last time would somehow turn out differently than before.”

Ed heard the words he _wasn’t_ saying:

_The definition of insanity…_

Ed sat down heavily on the stool across the island, head in his hand. “He’s really gone this time.”

Knowing it and saying it were apparently two very different things. At the words, Ed’s chest caved in with grief. A great, gaping chasm of loss, of disbelief. It clawed through his insides, up his esophagus. He pressed his fingers between glass lense and eyelid to stop the stinging. “He’s gone.” 

*

A month passed, and Ed busied himself with his work. There was no time for grieving when his mind was occupied with one puzzle after another. The newest vault at Brown and Meridian Laboratory with dual biometric and mechanical dial entry, pressure sensitive flooring behind 6 inches of reinforced steel, and the random laser sequence kept him occupied for all of a single afternoon. And then the new game he was planning for the Gotham Physical Society conference being held next week. Then, just for laughs, he decided to see how many banks he could rob in the middle of the workday without anyone noticing his presence.

There was a concerning lack of response from the underworld at Oswald’s disappearance. He’d been consolidating his power before their encounter at the dock, and it only made sense that the underbosses would be sweeping in to tear the city and each other apart in a scramble for power. But there was none of that. Barbara, Butch, and Tabitha had all disappeared, and it seemed none of the others were willing to step into Oswald’s shoes.

Not that Ed cared. He’d been happy to help Oswald become King of Gotham, because Ed himself had no similar ambitions. He’d helped Barbara only for the promise that she’d aid him in his own endeavours. Let the others scramble for power or not, it didn’t matter. He was above all of that. No need for staking claim of territory--the whole city of Gotham was his playground, and Ed was clever enough to keep several steps ahead of anyone who might try to stop him.

He just hadn’t counted on Zsasz waiting for him in the alley behind Capital City Bank, both guns levelled at Ed’s chest. “Hey Riddle-guy.”

Of the various obstacles he’d considered, this was one of the more unlikely. Unless Zsasz wanted revenge for Oswald? He didn’t seem the type. “Zsasz,” Ed said cautiously. He hefted his bag of loot higher on his shoulder and considered his options here. Zsasz had never been interested in power or monetary gain. He did what he did because he enjoyed it, which Ed could relate to, but it didn’t give him much leverage.

“Maybe you haven’t heard, but there’s a new way of doing things in Gotham,” Zsasz said. “You wanna rob a bank, you need to get a license.”

Ed obviously hadn’t heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

“It’s kinda new,” Zsasz said. “As in, just started issuing them this week, so I can see how it might have slipped your notice.”

“You can’t be serious,” Ed said blankly.

Zsasz tipped his head to the side, considering him. “Should I just kill him?”

“Not yet.”

An echoing sound rang through the alley, a familiar sharp tap on the pavement, followed by a shuffling step, repeated again and again, drawing closer. Oswald bled from the shadows like the spectre from a ghost story, pale and fairly _glowing_. The bag slipped from Ed’s nerveless fingers and landed with a cacophonous clatter on the pavement.

Reality, such as it was, lurched dizzingly to the side. 

“What’s the matter, _Ed_?” With a final, decisive tap of his cane, Oswald came to stand just in front of Ed, his eyes twinkling.

A hand darted out before Ed fully made the decision to touch, landing on Oswald’s shoulder. He was solid and warm and dry to the touch, and dressed impeccably according to his standards. No seaweed accessories, no sea creatures scuttling about. Skin pale, but with the flush of life, lips pink instead of that ghastly purpling marble that haunted Ed’s dreams.

Distraction served him well enough in the waking hours, but Ed’s dreams weren’t safe. There Oswald pursued him relentlessly, with those luminous, accusatory eyes and acerbic tongue. It was so that now the only rest Ed got was during his waking hours. Sleep was a prison to be escaped with stimulants and one distraction after the other.

“Not a hallucination,” Oswald said, brushing Ed’s hand from his shoulder as if it were a speck of dust. 

“Y--you’re dead,” Ed whispered. 

Oswald barked out in genuine laughter, looking to Zsasz who shared in his amusement. He swept a hand down himself as if to say _I seem to be evidence to the contrary._ And it was true. Except for his usual lopsided posture, he seemed perfectly healthy.

“You look pretty good for a corpse, boss,” Zsasz remarked.

“I killed you,” Ed hissed out through clenched teeth. 

Oswald pulled a face of embarrassment on Ed’s behalf and shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, you failed. Again.” He reached out to rap the back of his hand against Ed’s chest in a companionable gesture. “Maybe you should stick with the asphyxiation and dismemberment routine. Harder to screw that one up.”

Ed snarled, and moved without thinking again, this time reaching out to grab the front of Oswald’s ridiculous ruffled button down with both hands. In one sharp jerk, he ripped it open, sending buttons flying, and leaving it to hang in tattered halves from Oswald’s torso. Apparently the move was shocking enough that both Zsasz and Oswald were momentarily frozen.

Oswald’s bare chest was thin and even paler than his face, almost blue in the streetlamp, and scattered in the same freckles that dotted his nose and cheeks beneath the makeup. And right there in the centre, the evidence of Ed’s violence on him. The older, smooth-edged scar on his upper stomach, and, stretching from sternum to collarbone, the newer wounds. Sunken, pink-purple scars clumped together so as to be indistinguishable one from the other, they looked both far too fresh for Ed’s comfort, and far too well-healed, given how little time had passed.

Oswald snapped out of his stupor, slapping Ed’s hands away and pulled his coat around himself. He began to fasten it closed, not looking Ed in the face as he spoke. “If you’d wanted me undressed, Ed, I have to tell you you’ve been going about it all wrong.”

Ed flushed at his words. “That’s impossible,” he said. He shook his head, hoping maybe the words he wanted would fall loose. “Those wounds would _kill you_.”

“Clearly not,” Oswald said, still with unflappable good-humour.

Ed squeezed his eyes shut tightly and rubbed at his eyelids, out over his temples, fingers inching into the hair under the brim of his hat. He was dreaming, clearly. This was another dream. It was the only way to explain it, when he knew that Oswald was dead, this time with absolute certainty. He must have fallen to sleep while planning the heist, succumbing to the weeks of exhaustion, and his mind was tormenting him with this impossible scenario.

“You’re not real,” he said.

The sound of a gun being uncocked, and Zsasz said, “I gotta say, I’m kind of disappointed.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed, sounding unimpressed. Ed cracked open an eye to observe them both staring at him as if he were something they’d found smeared on the bottom of their shoe. “The great… _Riddler_ \--” He spoke the word with such disdain as to rob it of any victory for Ed. “I’d have expected more of a fight.”

Oswald’s narrowed gaze met Ed’s. It had been easy to forget, in Ed’s rage, how very shrewd and clever Oswald was. He’d allowed his emotions to rule him these past months, but there was none of that in his expression now, as he eyed Ed with a clinical detachment. At last he turned his back on Ed, and there could be no clearer statement on his part, that Ed was no longer a threat to him.

“Zsasz, if you would.” Oswald waved a hand towards the bag of loot discarded on the pavement, and Zsasz obediently fetched it. One gun remained loose at his side as a warning against any effort to stop him.

“Out of...nostalgia for our friendship, I’ll overlook your lack of license just this once,” Oswald said. “But if you plan to continue operating in Gotham, you’ll be playing by my rules.” Then he disappeared back into the shadowy depths of the alley.

Zsasz fished out a handful of jewels, gave a little salute with his fisted hand and a cheeky grin, and shoved them into his pocket. “Later Riddle-dude.”

How long he stood there after their departure, Ed couldn’t say. Long after Oswald’s familiar gait had ceased, and the sound of their car starting and driving away. Long enough that the ambient sounds of the city had faded into a sort of white noise. It was only once that was cut through with the sound of approaching sirens that Ed was spurred into motion, grabbing his bag and scrambling back home.


	2. Visitations

He didn’t make it home. Somehow he found himself on a fire escape, waiting outside the darkened window of Lucius Fox’s living room. It was odd, that Foxy wasn’t home yet. Ed checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes and scowled. What on Earth could be keeping him at this hour. Tempting though it was to just let himself inside and be out of the cold, he and Foxy had developed a sort of rapport, and it just didn’t feel like appropriate guest behaviour to go break into his unoccupied home.

Around three in the morning, Ed was stirred awake by the sound of a fist rapping on a window. For a moment, he forgot where he was, and why, and blinked awake to see Lucius giving him a weary look from the other side of the glass.

“What are you doing here?” Foxy mouthed.

Ed gestured for him to open the window, and with a visible sigh, Foxy relented. Then he had to scramble backwards as Ed climbed inside, not an easy feat at his height. “Where were you?” Ed hadn’t meant for it to sound so accusatory. Sometimes his mouth had a mind of its own. Almost literally.

“The station.” Foxy looked as tired as Ed felt these days. Bloodshot sclera, heavy bags under the eyes, shoulders slumped, with a shuffling gait. He sat down heavily on the sofa. “Things have been pretty crazy since the attack. Now. What are you doing here?”

No use beating around the bush. “Oswald is alive.”

Foxy sighed again. “Yeah, I know. He sent two of our most wanted to the hospital this week. Another five to the morgue.”

Ed shot him a betrayed look. “You _knew_?”

“It’s been hard to miss the past few days. Rumour has it he’s starting issuing licenses for crime.”

“This...isn’t possible,” Ed muttered, more to himself than Lucius. This had been carrying on far to long and vividly for it to be a dream, yet he had no other way to explain the events as they were occurring.

“Ed,” Foxy said, in that delicate way he had that immediately set Ed’s nerves on edge. “You know, it’s possible that...subconsciously...you realised you didn’t want him dead. That you purposefully shot him in such a way that--”

“I shot him right here,” Ed roared, jabbing a finger in his own chest. Centre gravity. “Seven rounds.” His voice broke and Ed had to clear his throat before resuming. “And he’s got the scars to prove it. There’s no way he survived.”

To that, at least, Foxy had nothing to say. He just sat there uselessly, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone was brought back from the dead in Gotham.”

“Fish?” Ed asked, perking up. Then he made a noise of disgust. “No, Strange wouldn’t bring Oswald back. He’s terrified of him.”

“But there have been others,” Foxy said. “Jerome Valeska was brought back by his followers using the research from Indian Hill.”

It was a good point, one that had the gears in Ed’s head turning faster. Oswald’s little tribe of followers was made up primarily of Indian Hill freaks. He’d heard from Tabitha who’d heard from Cat that Ivy Pepper had saved her life when she was in a coma and not expected to make it through the night. _And_ Ivy had been the one to nurse Oswald back to health last time, from what Ed could gather. 

The last time Edward had seen her, before she’d shown up at Oswald’s side, Ivy couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and now she could easily pass for her mid-twenties. Anywhere other than Gotham it would be impossible, but here the girl who aged a decade in a few months might conceivably hold the key to this mystery.

Foxy had wandered into the kitchen space and poured himself a drink from his rapidly dwindling supply of tequila. Ed made a mental note to send him another bottle--a nicer one, and went over to grab his hand and shake it enthusiastically. “Thank you, as ever, for the most stimulating conversation.”

“My pleasure,” Foxy said faintly.

*

Ivy Pepper kept a rundown little greenhouse about fifteen miles outside of town, on the riverfront. Ed spent some time surveilling, but she was entirely alone for the most part, outside of deliveries or the occasional visit from Selina and the one they called Firefly. She largely spent her time with the plants, which grew so thick that from the outside, all that could be seen was a lush, veritable rainforest of towering green plants..

This must have been where she fished Oswald from the water, at the dingy little dock mostly overtaken by shrubbery, stained green with age, and so slick from the overgrowth of algae that it would be hazardous to walk upon. Ed stood there for a long while, trying to imagine Oswald’s trip down the river bringing him miraculously alive to this place. 

Oswald far beneath the turbulent surface, cast in rippling shades of green light, carried back and forth on the current. Breathing in water and sand, trailing wisps of blood behind him. His face lax in unconsciousness, lashes a dark curve of shadow on his cheeks, hair drifting and tangling with the plants. It was a peaceful, almost beautiful image that painted itself in his mind’s eye, Oswald as some mystical creature, safe in the arms of the water.

Then the fish that darted in flashes of silver around Oswald’s delicate fingers, grew bold and took those first hesitant nibbles of flesh. In a split second, all Ed could see was what _should have_ become of Oswald. Rotted and bloated, a thin layer of adipocere to protect his body, but his face mostly gone. Sockets empty--those eyes of his must have been among the first to go, and his lips, eaten away to reveal the sick approximation of his smile.

Ed hadn’t had such a powerful and visceral reaction to anything since the moment of realisation when he’d looked into Kristen’s dead eyes. He ended up heaving the contents of his stomach into the river, no doubt ruining the seat of his suit as he sat there gasping to catch his breath.

At least the mocking laughter he heard in his head this time was his own. _How cute, Ed, like a child playing cops and robbers with a loaded gun, fully failing to comprehend to consequences of his actions._ And he’d done it _again_.

There were too many emotions for Ed to process them all. Grief, anger, relief, self-pity, and something deeper that pulled in his chest, _aching_. It was easier to snatch ahold of the anger and bring it to the forefront. Allow _that_ to dominate his actions. He stood and brushed himself off, and made his way to Ivy’s ramshackle home.

She was, unsurprisingly, in the greenhouse proper, which was shockingly warm and humid in comparison to the chill of the outdoors. The air hit him like a solid wall, knocking the breath from his chest. All around, an exotic arrangement of flowering vines crawled up the walls toward the light streaming in through the roof. Ed spared a moment’s pity for the poor things; straining towards sunlight in Gotham must have been a thankless task.

Ivy stood with her back to him, wearing a rather fetching shade of emerald green, and humming to herself as she stroked her fingers along the leaves of a plant. What Oswald saw in this...child remained a mystery. How had he managed to regain his empire with her at his side, when Ed could come upon her so alone and helpless and entirely clueless as to the danger she was in.

At the sound of his gun cocking, Ivy jumped and turned to face Ed. She didn’t look particularly surprised to see him, or fearful, all things considered. Ed recalled the comical image of all six plus feet of her in her heels trying to cower behind Oswald’s back. But now she arched an unimpressed brow at him and turned back to her plants. “Ed, right?”

“It’s Riddler,” he corrected.

“Riiiiight,” Ivy said. “Pengy mentioned something about that.”

 _Pengy_ , Ed mouthed to himself, and shook his head. “And as I recall, you used to be...smaller,” he said, gesturing with his free hand.

Ivy shrugged. “Gotham, right?”

“Right,” Ed replied, voice flat. “Gotham, where men with bullet holes in their chest just wash up on shore 15 miles down river, little worse for the trip.”

“Ooooh,” Ivy said. She turned back to him with a mocking smile. “Are you still sore about that?”

“Yes! Yes I’m still sore about that.” Ed shook the pistol for effect. “He should be _dead_!”

“I just figured you got it out of your system by now,” Ivy said. “Like how Pengy tried to kill Fish, and Fish tried to have him killed, and then he tried to kill her and then voila! She came back and they’re family again, and she wants to help him retake his throne!” She threw her hands in the air in a triumphant sort of way, to signify what, Ed couldn’t say. 

At his look, her expression fell. “I’m just saying, you did it twice already--isn’t it getting a little old?”

Ed had to remind himself that he was, for all intents and purposes, speaking to a child--no matter how mature the woman before him _looked_. He fought the urge to rub his forehead, or strangle her. “Look, the point is, _you_ are the one who suddenly went from fourteen to twenty-four, and then you’re the one who brings Oswald back from the brink of death.”

Ivy’s nose wrinkled. “Wow, Drama Queen, you’re like, just as bad as he is. Ugh, the two of you are perfect for each other.” Ed shook his gun again menacingly, and Ivy sighed. 

“First of all, it was one of Fish’s freaks that did the whole fast forward to hottie thing on me, and two, he wasn’t even that bad,” she said and crossed her arms over her chest. “It was a flesh wound--I don’t even know what took him so long to wake up. I just told him it was worse than it was so he’d, ya know...maybe be more grateful for what I did?”

“A flesh wound?” Ed repeated in disbelief.

Ivy nodded, “It was weird. He looked dead when I pulled him out. I mean, he was floating face down, right? But I didn’t even have to do mouth to mouth or anything. As soon as he was on his back, he started coughing up water.” She made a face. “All over me, _gross_. He sat up straight, and opened his eyes, and they were like, _black_. Like pitch black, and then he just fell over and slept for a week straight. Not even a thank you!”

“And you bandaged his wounds?”

“I used some of my special ointment, and wrapped him up so it wouldn’t get infected, but they were pretty much already healed by then.”

“What?” Ed demanded. “How?”

“IDK,” Ivy said defensively. “Like, he was totally acting like it hurt and he could barely move, but as soon as he got angry he beat that Gabe guy to death without missing a beat. And after that it was like he totally forgot he’d ever been hurt to begin with.” She snapped her fingers. “Back to normal. Except for that limp.” Here she flashed him a judgemental look only a teenager could manage, and pointed at his gun. “You might wanna think about getting a more powerful weapon or something.”

“Would you like to test just how powerful it is?” Ed gritted out.

“Okay, but first--” Ivy looked down at her nails, entirely unconcerned by the threat. “You should know that Zsasz had his girls put cameras all over this place, and Fries and Firefly are only a ten minute drive away, so they should be getting here any minute now.”

Ed had no intention of running into Zsasz or any other of Oswald’s assorted freaks today. Nor did he have any particular desire to kill a child, regardless of his general ambivalence towards them. Still, he needed answers, and she was the best source for them.

“What about this time? How did you find him again? You’re not going to tell me he washed up on your shore again.”

“Oh no.” Ivy waved her hand. “Zsasz found him under the bridge at 215,” She leaned in like she was going to share a secret and added, “That guy is creepy.”

Ed made a sound of agreement.

“Anyway, some homeless guy had pulled him out, thought he was dead and tried to take his stuff, and Pengy woke up and stabbed him with his tie pin. Zsasz brought him back to the manor, and the na few days later he was back to normal.”

A migraine was coming on, Ed just knew it. “And when was this?”

Ivy shrugged again. “Last Friday?”

“The _same day I shot him_? That. Is. Impossible.”

“Look, Ed--”

“Riddler.”

“What _ever_. Point is, for some reason that is beyond me, Pengy’s carrying a torch for you. Like, majorly. And even if he never admitted it, he’d be super bummed if Zsasz killed you. So I need a favour.”

Ed arched a brow. “And why would I do you any favours?”

Ivy held out her hand, right in his face, like she expected him to kiss it, or something, and Ed stared at it blankly. “What--” There was a floral scent rising from her skin, spicy and exotic, and beneath that, the barest hint of salt and sweat. All around them, the greenhouse began to blur and weave, like seen through a funhouse mirror.

“Now, give me your gun.”

Had Ivy’s voice always sounded so smooth and melodic? Like the gentle plucking of the keys on a piano. Had her skin always glowed like that? Radiant and porcelain white against the soft wave of her hair? The corner of her lips tugged upwards in a smirk as Ed obediently handed over his gun, and he could write whole books of poetry just on that one gesture.

“Good,” Ivy said, with a pat to his head. Ed beamed at her. “Now I’ve got one question for you, and after that, you’re gonna scram. Get the hell out of here before Zsasz and Fries and Firefly show up, and be sneaky about it, so they don’t see where you’ve gone, and you’re going to go back to your little Puzzle-Pad or whatever, and lay low, got it?”

Ed nodded dumbly. “Yes, whatever you want. What is the question?”

“Oh, yeah.” Ivy held the gun casually in one hand, thoughtful expression on her lovely features. “Why do you keep shooting Pengy?”

Ed opened his mouth immediately. _Because he killed Isabella_ Only the words wouldn’t come out. It was as if he were physically incapable of speaking them. He cleared his throat and tried again. _Because I hate him_.

The wicked curve of Ivy’s grin faded into something softer, sympathetic. She laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Oh, sweetie, you have to tell me the _truth_. Not whatever lie you’ve told yourself.”

Pain split through his skull, like a spike being driven in relentlessly, as he fumbled for something to tell her. Each lie was another pound of the hammer, driving it deeper, until he fell to his knees from the force of it. Ivy just watched expectantly, and Ed knew then, just as she did, that there was no way to avoid it. The words came out with a sob, torn from his chest. 

“I didn’t think I could kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos keep me going, folks  
> thanks to everyone who's supported me so far!


	3. Marks

To be fair, Oswald was a very resilient fellow. Besides Ed’s own attempts on his life, he’d survived countless others. Somehow he always escaped relatively unscathed and ended up rising once again to the top of of Gotham’s underworld. Fish, Maroni, Galavan, accomplished killers all. Yet Oswald remained, and the only sign left of the violence upon him was his limp.

Ed had never thought of it in those term, but now it was all he could think about. Better to focus on that than the other revelations brought about by Ivy’s perfume. Ed’s nose twitched unpleasantly at the memory. He swiped a finger across it, scratching a non-existent itch.

(It was best, also, not to dwell too long on the fact that all the others who’d tried to kill Oswald had paid a significant price, most with their lives.)

Now that he thought about it, given the condition Oswald was in when Ed found him, he really shouldn’t have healed so quickly from Tabitha’s gunshot. He’d been in shock, filthy, dehydrated, and he’d lost more blood than any human ever should. 

At the time, Ed had been so wrapped up in his own genesis, he hadn’t given much thought to the fact that there’d been no infection. No fever. Oswald had been up and murdering again in a matter of days, after being tended to in Ed’s apartment, when most would have been laid up for weeks in a hospital with professional care.

What did it mean?

Logically, it meant nothing. It was coincidence and cunning, and one day Oswald’s luck would run out. For reasons Ed didn’t want to examine, the thought made his blood run cold. How had so much changed in such a little amount of time?

These thoughts chased one another in circles around in his mind over the following days. Ed remained holed up in his hideout as Oswald and his men continued their deadly campaign on those with the Tetch virus. The GCPD was doing its best to regain control and distribute the antidote, but the citizens didn’t fail to notice who was actually keeping them safe. 

Ed watched the news with a smile of vague wonder toying his lips, and shook his head. Oswald was going to manage it again. Turn all the negative press into a weapon he could use against those who opposed him. 

Why, just the other day when Ed had been making a supply run, he’d stumbled across a stick up where a police officer who, when he saw the criminal’s license, had walked away without interfering. The exchange had proceeded without further interruption, and afterwards, Ed had overheard the victim commenting how nice it was to know that as long as he handed over his wallet, no harm would come to him, _all thanks to the Penguin_. Only Oswald could have a victim thanking his attacker...

Oh, it must’ve been driving Jim crazy.

Ed now had two options before him. Either continue as he always had, operating independent from others, and undoubtedly earning Oswald’s ire. Or, he could take the olive branch extended and apply for one of the licenses. Part of him balked at the idea. He was beholden to no one, least of all Penguin. But this new mystery of Oswald’s continued survival had him intrigued, and the best way to obtain more information was from the man himself.

If Oswald was willing to bury the hatchet, or at least pretend to, Ed could play along.

*

The sign proclaimed the club to be _The Iceberg Lounge_ in pale neon blue. Gotham was abuzz with anticipation for the grand opening, to take place next week. Rumour had it that Bruce Wayne himself would be in attendance. As good as a stamp of approval for many of the city’s denizens.

Ed had put some of the money from his recent heists to good use, and wore one of the suits now--a shimmering green number that almost looked black in dim lighting, dusted in sequins ranging from vivid emerald to peacock green, with the occasional spark of gold, and a matching bowler hat. Putting his best foot forward, and all of that. He thought it would appeal to Oswald’s sense of the dramatic, at any rate.

The guard at the door took him in head to toe. “The Riddler, to see Oswald,” Ed said. He rested his hands atop his cane, and waited in silence with an expectant smirk. 

After a long moment, the bouncer opened the door and jerked her head, indicating he enter. “Head on up. Zsasz’ll let him know you’re here.”

The elevator opened on the familiar space of Sirens completely redone. All the warm mahogany and gold, and intimate lighting had been replaced with black leather, cool highlights, and stark white light, accented by more of that icy neon blue. Umbrellas suspended from the ceiling served as chandeliers, a whimsical touch that made Ed’s lips quirk in amusement.

Stepping into the room, Ed was confronted with a giant block of ice. Even from a distance of several feet, he could feel the cold it radiated, and it made him unaccountably uneasy. He gave it wide berth as he passed to where Zsasz sat at the bar with Ivy at his side.

“Riddle dude!” Zsasz gave him a lazy smile. “I just missed you the other day at Ivy’s.” He held up a finger, imitating cocking and firing a gun, complete with sound effect. “Shame.”

“Yes, well.” Ed adjusted the collar of his suit. “I’ve had some time to consider Penguin’s generous proposal, and I’ve decided to take him up on it.”

Ivy and Zsasz exchanged an unreadable look and both shrugged. Zsasz hopped to his feet and came to stand in front of him, hand outstretched. Rather than play dumb, Ed took the gun tucked in the waistband of his suit, and laid it in Zsasz’s palm. “I’d tell you not to try anything funny, but I gotta be honest, I wouldn’t mind putting a bullet through that weird little head of yours.” Zsasz punctuated the words with a tap of his finger against Ed’s forehead, knocking his hat askew. Then he smiled. “This way.”

Oswald’s office was as impressive and ostentatious as Ed expected of him, and Oswald looked appropriately forbidding sitting before the textured glass window. The blue backlight cast shadow over his face giving him the appearance of being underwater. “Ed, welcome,” he greeted, as if he’d been expected.

Ed dipped his head respectfully. “Oswald.”

Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Ed knew Oswald too well. He could see the almost predatory slit of his gaze, ready to strike at any second. Oswald could afford to be forgiving and benevolent, but that didn’t mean he was inclined to be.

“I’ve come to purchase a license.”

“Please,” Oswald said, with a sweep of his hand. “Take a seat.”

Everything, in this moment, was a power play. Ed fought the urge to bare his teeth and refuse, and instead obediently settled into the seat opposite Oswald. After a long moment of silence, Oswald gave a little bark of laughter, gesturing with one hand around them. “Well? What do you think of the club?”

Ed’s smile was perfunctory, lips stretched too wide. “Charming. I’m sure all of Gotham will be clamouring at the doors. Though I’m not so sure about your centerpiece.”

Oswald stroked a finger across his bottom lip in a thoughtful gesture. “It does seem to be missing something, I agree.” He eyed Ed as he spoke the words, and his gaze made Ed shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’ve actually been thinking of opening a club of my own,” Ed said, casting about for something to change the direction of their conversation. He was wrong-footed here, and that just wouldn’t do. “With your permission, of course.”

“A club?” Oswald arched a brow. “You?” He fiddled absently with some strange device on his desk, flipping a switch that lit small red bulb on the side.

“It wouldn’t be drawing the same sort of clientele as yours,” Ed assured him.

“I’d hardly be worried about the competition if it did,” Oswald said.

Ed bit his tongue to keep from snapping back, and let his smile widen disingenuously instead. “Of course not. Does that mean you’ll sell me a license?”

“Ed.” Oswald gave him a familiar smile, though Ed was used to seeing it aimed at others. A smile full of feigned contrition to cover the condescension. “You must know that it would be my pleasure to sell a license to my dear old friend.”

Pregnant silence followed, in which Ed could clearly hear the _but_ that must follow Oswald’s statement. The air smelled strangely of ozone, something metallic burning that set Ed even further on edge. Oswald made him wait for it, each moment growing more and more unbearable, until Ed, through gritted teeth, managed the word himself. “But?”

Oswald sighed. “I wonder how it would look, if I were to allow the man who tried to kill me--not once, but _twice_ \--to simply carry on business as normal. There are many who might perceive it as a sign of weakness, and I can’t have that.”

“Are you suggesting some public castigation?” Ed’s thoughts, inexplicably, went to the block of ice in the other room, and a chill ran down his spine. “Let me serve as warning to any others who might turn on you?”

“Oh, nothing so dramatic, Edward,” Oswald chastised, in that infuriating way he had, amused at your expense. “I think an additional cut of all earnings, on top of your license fee. Thirty percent.”

“Yes,” Ed agreed testily, because he’d come here with a specific goal in mind, and he wasn’t going to let Oswald’s little game deter him. What did the money matter, anyway? He could make more, and that wasn’t what he was after. “And?”

The smile that curled Oswald’s lips was nothing short of wicked, something enigmatic tucked in the curve. Secret and knowing in a way that reminded Ed of his own reflection when it taunted with the knowledge it held and he lacked.

“You can have your club. In the Narrows.”

“The Narrows?” Ed spat back, before he could catch himself, and cursed himself for giving Oswald just what he wanted.

One of Oswald’s shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. “Not even I can completely erase the lines Falcone and Maroni carved through the city, and if I allow your activities to infringe upon the territories of others, well...the results wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Fine,” Ed snapped. He could work with it. Outside of the one percenters, people were pretty much the same across all of Gotham. They’d all faced the same roller coaster rise and fall of one madman after the next, and despite Jim’s flowery words about hope and goodness, they all shared the same nihilistic outlook. His club would flourish there as well as anywhere--he’d just need to tailor the show to the audience. “The Narrows.”

Oswald clapped his hands together. “Terrific.” He stood and leaned over his desk to offer his hand, and Ed only hesitated a second before standing and stepping forward to take it.

“A pleasure, as always, Oswald.”

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald said. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The moment drew out, teetering on uncomfortable, but when Ed tried to pull his hand free, Oswald’s grip tightened. “One...more...thing…” Oswald had always been surprisingly strong given his stature, and his hand squeezed hard, grinding Ed’s fingers together as he turned his hand upwards.

Ed gave an aborted jerk and met Oswald’s playful gaze, lips pressed tightly together against an outburst demanding Oswald release him. Instead, he breathed in and out again, and said, “Yes?”

Oswald reached up with his other hand to take Ed by the wrist, and then finally loosened his hold, fingers tucking in the edge of Ed’s glove and tugging it off in one smooth motion. The back of Ed’s hand was bared to him. 

Slowly, so slowly that Ed couldn’t be sure if this was real or a dream, Oswald reached for the object with the glowing red bulb. This close, Ed could see it resembled a soldering iron in form, with a round, metal plate at the end. 

“Think of this as a gift,” Oswald said, and the low, hypnotic quality to his voice did nothing to dispel the strange, dreamlike lethargy that had fallen over Ed. “To put to rest any lingering doubts as to where your loyalty lies.”

He should tug his hand free. It would be easy--Oswald no longer restrained him, shifting his grip from Ed’s wrist to his hand, holding it loosely, almost gently aloft. Yet even as his mind screamed for him to move, Ed remained still, helpless but to watch as Oswald brought the iron closer. 

The shape on the plate was familiar--clean, simple lines of an umbrella, the same as the stamp on the licenses but larger, with a looping reverse monogram in the centre. The implication was clear, no matter how Oswald dressed it up. He meant Ed to be branded with his symbol, his _name_ , a blatant sign of ownership.

Ed’s hand twitched, and Oswald froze, the proximity of the iron radiated heat against Ed’s skin. Oswald’s eyes pinned him in place. He waited for Ed to protest, to jerk free. It was as if the room had fallen away from around them, leaving them suspended in an endless black void, and Oswald’s hand holding his own was the only thing keeping Ed from falling. 

He did not consent, but neither did he protest, when Oswald moved again, to close the last distance and press the plate to flesh. Ed had long ago learned to disassociate from pain, but this was different. This was nothing at all what he expected, all too familiar with the sensation of burning heat against his skin. This felt as though it burnt from within, the brand taking shape in bone and radiating upward through tendon and tissue and dermis, and only once Oswald lifted the iron away, bleeding through to the epidermis with an orange-gold glow that was gone so quickly Ed knew it had to be a trick of light.

And then, only then, did Ed’s body unfreeze. He clutched his hand to his chest, waiting for the throbbing to set in, but it was much duller than he expected.

If nothing else, at least Ed could take some small measure of pleasure in the expression on Oswald’s face. Lips parted in faint surprise, brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t believe what had just transpired. “I didn’t think you’d actually allow that,” he murmured. And the unspoken _I didn’t know I’d actually follow through, if you did_.

It wasn’t as if Ed had any dignity left to muster at this point, with Oswald’s initials in stark white and black relief on his skin. All the same, he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Is that all, then?”

“That’s all,” Oswald said faintly. Then he seemed to recover all at once, with a self-satisfied smirk. He sat back in his seat, iron held casually in hand, still smelling of Ed’s burnt flesh. “Good luck with your club, Ed. Zsasz will be around to check on you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time between updates, and honestly it comes down to lack of response. Maybe it's just the other fandoms I'm in have spolied me, but I'm used to a lot more feedback, and writing this feels like something of a thankless task. I might write more at some point, but I wanted to give a heads up.


	4. Whalesong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who've left kudos or kind comments, they really are what keep me going with this.
> 
> Please forgive the quality of my horrible sketch with this chapter, but I felt it important to show what I was describing, and I don't have the money to commission a real artist!

Ed dreamed of being back in the Iceberg Lounge.

Of course, at first he didn’t realise it was a dream. Despite his best efforts at training his mind to differentiate between the sleeping and waking world, it had grown increasingly difficult as of late. There were all the signs that became obvious upon the jarring shift to wakefulness, however, leaving him to wonder how his brain could have ever been fooled into mistaking it for reality.

The whole room was plunged in darkness, illuminated only by a distant, icy blue glow that radiated from everywhere and nowhere at once. Ed wove his way between the tables and chairs, towards Oswald’s office, each obstacle only visible in his immediate vicinity. Appearing suddenly before him as if summoned into being in the very second of his approach.

Even without seeing it, Ed knew the ice block was close. The cold radiated throughout the entire space, and every step he took Ed feared would bring him flush against it.

Ivy and Zsasz still sat at the bar, only they were frozen--not in ice, but grey and still like carved stone. Drinks clasped in hand, mouths parted, Ivy’s hair caught mid-toss, each detail perfectly articulated, between one second and the next gone from living, breathing, speaking beings to statues.

On, and on, the room went, larger than he remembered, and out of the dark appeared other stone tableaux. There was Bruce Wayne with his butler at his back, squaring off with Jerome Valeska, his head tossed back in laughter Ed could almost hear The tension was palpable between them even in stone form. Further on, Butch sprawled out on the ground, Tabitha kneeling at his side, and Barbara standing over them with smoke still wisping from the barrel of her gun.

Then, at last, Victor Fries with his freeze gun, ice thickening and expanding to form the block centerpiece, and encased within, Ed came face to face with his own image. Hands raised as if they could protect him from the blast, mouth opened in protest.

Ed wrapped his arms around himself, but he couldn’t stop the shivers that wracked his body, as if it were he and not his doppleganger frozen within.

Just beyond was the door to Oswald’s office and Ed hurried toward it. He had no expectation of what he might find there, but if anyone would have answers in all of this, it would be Penguin. It was the knowledge behind those pale eyes, that haughty smirk parting with words crafted like weapons that haunted Ed day and night.

He lifted his hand to the handle and paused at the sight of it. There, on the back, the healing burn caught his gaze. Only it wasn’t Oswald’s seal now, but a strange rune-like symbol, thick and black on his pale skin.

Ed pushed the door open, and any pretense of a building fell away, leaving him standing on a small stone island floating in inky black space. Oswald’s desk was still there, and his chair behind it sat empty. As Ed stepped closer, that familiar voice spoke, echoing all around, everywhere and nowhere just as the light.

“Welcome, old friend.” Lower and deeper, with an amused lilt, but still unmistakably Oswald’s.

Black smoke tangled between his ankles and swirled some distance away before coalescing to form Oswald’s body. Dressed in a tailored double-breasted suit with the collar turned up, the shirt beneath left undone to expose the pale skin of his throat. The lines of his face were sharper, almost gaunt, and his eyes...black orbs as deep and fathomless as the dark that surrounded them. Ed startled at the sight and stumbled backwards. His arms flailed in an attempt to regain his balance when his heel went over the edge of the island.

Oswald’s hand shot out, lightning fast, closing around Ed’s shirtfront. Rather than pulling him back to safety, however, Oswald held him there, suspended over the void. This was different from the mocking expression Oswald often favoured him with. No less amused, but wiser, older, removed from Ed’s struggle. Ed couldn’t help but think of the reverse of this position at the end of the pier.

“I think I prefer it this way,” Oswald said, as if he’d read Ed’s mind. He leaned in, yet somehow it didn’t topple them over the edge. Somewhere in the distance, he heard whale song.

When Ed risked a look, it was to see Oswald’s feet floating several inches above the ground. His eyes darted back to Oswald’s, hand coming up to clasp his wrist and hold tight. Oswald glanced down to the mark burnt there, and his smile broadened.

“It’s time you learn your place, Edward.”

With that, Oswald released his hold, and Ed plummeted into the dark.

He woke suddenly and completely, heart racing and his sheets soaked through. Ed drew a sharp breath and held it for a long moment before releasing it in a slow, steady exhale. The pitch black of the vault he was using as his room was nearly indistinguishable from the void he’d just visited in his dreams. When he closed his eyes, he could see the blue glow of the rune-like symbol on the back of his hand, superimposed on his eyelids. His hand throbbed in sympathetic pain, keeping pace with his pulse.

Ed sat up and flipped on the lamp on his bedside table, casting a greenish pool of light in the black. He kept a journal by his bed for any ideas he had as he fell asleep or upon waking, and now he picked up his pencil to sketch out the design from the dream, while it was still fresh in his mind. When he caught sight of the bandage on on his hand, however, he was momentarily distracted from his mission.

There were enough ancient cigarette marks and crescent moon lighter scars down his arms and thighs that he was all too familiar with the healing process of a burn. But when he peeled back the cotton, the brand on his hand showed none of the blistering, peeling, or inflammation he expected. The black and red of the skin around it had faded to waxy white In fact, it looked mostly healed.

Wonderingly, Ed brushed the thumb of his other hand across the shape of Oswald’s initials. The skin was tender, but not painful, raised beneath his touch. Tracing the outline sent a strange, shivery sensation along the nerves of his hand, tingling up his arm, and he stopped at once, pressing the bandage back in place and turning his attention back to the task at hand.

 

 

 

Finally a place to start.

*

Lucius was exhausted. He was lucky to get four hours a night these days, and the sleep debt was catching up with him. This evening he wanted nothing more than to tumble straight into bed, dinner and personal hygiene be damned.

Of course, life in Gotham was never that simple. He barely even startled when he opened his front door to find Ed already seated in his living room, apparently so lost in thought he didn’t register Lucius’ presence.

For a brief moment Lucius paused, considering turning back the way he’d come, before withdrawing his key and stepping inside. “What are you doing here?”

Ed, thumb caught between his teeth and eyes fixed on something far away, muttered, “That’s becoming your refrain.”

“Forgive me for being too exhausted to come up with anything cleverer,” Lucius said. He let his bag drop to the floor with a clatter and shrugged off his jacket. “And that’s not an answer to my question.”

Ed leapt to his feet and waved a piece of paper in Lucius face. Lucius barely caught it, fumbling to turn it right-side up to see the image sketched there. His brow furrowed in confusion and a feeling of unease settled in his chest. “What’s this?” Knowing Gotham it could be anything from a gang symbol to a spell meant to raise the dead.

“Evidence,” Ed said absently. He paced up and down the length of the living room, eyes flitting back and forth and seeing nothing. Lucius warily eyed the gun held loosely in his right hand. “Why would he _change_ it though,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Ed.” Lucius caught him by the shoulder on his next pass, ducking his head to try to meet his gaze. “Evidence of what?”

The flesh around Ed’s bottom lip was going white from the pressure with which he bit it. He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” And he was off again, shrugging off Lucius’ touch.

Lucius rolled his eyes, suppressed the urge to sigh, and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Ed hardly seemed to notice his presence, as Lucius returned and slumped on the sofa. He turned his attention back the paper, scrutinising the symbol. “Some sort of glyph--Hermetic, maybe?”

“Already searched it,” Ed dismissed. “It’s something arcane. Witchcraft, maybe--I mean just look at the way he dresses! And his hair! It makes the most sense.”

The sigh would not be suppressed this time. “Ed, is this about Oswald?”

“Of course it’s about Oswald,” Ed hissed, and Lucius had to weigh the desire to point out just how obvious Ed’s true feelings on the matter were against the certainty of violence upon such a revelation.

“You think it has something to do with how he managed to survive being shot.”

“I’ve scoured the web, stolen every relevant book from the library, and there’s nothing even remotely like it.”

“Can I ask where you saw it first?”

That stopped Ed in his tracks. He darted a nervous glance at Lucius. “That is...unimportant.”

“I disagree,” Lucius said firmly. “Context is everything.”

Ed made a disgusted noise and waved his hand, and consequently the gun held within it. White cotton and medical tape in place of his usual black leather gloves caught Lucius’ eye. “Oswald is the context.”

“What happened to your hand?”

Ed looked down at himself, as if noticing the bandage for the first time, then clasped his right hand to his chest, cradled in his left. “It’s nothing, just a burn.” His eyes dared Lucius to call him out for his obvious lie.

Wearily, Lucius swirled the tequila in his glass and watched the way it caught the light. “Well, have you considered _asking_ Oswald?”

“Please,” Ed scoffed. “As if he’d tell me the truth.”

Admittedly Lucius didn’t know Oswald as well as Ed, but just based on personal observation, and what he’d heard from Jim, Oswald wasn’t a habitual liar. Manipulation, coercion, blackmail, or outright violence to achieve his ends, perhaps. But Ed had justified too much of his own behaviour on the presumption that Oswald’s declaration of love was a lie, and Lucius had given up any thoughts of convincing him otherwise. He had enough on his plate as Ed’s impromptu therapist. He wasn’t about to go for relationship counselor.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure how much help I can be, if you’re not going to be more forthcoming,” Lucius said. “The occult isn’t exactly my area of expertise.” Despite what he’d researched on Indian Hill, which still struck him as far more science fiction than reality.

“Oswald thinks he has the upperhand,” Ed went on, either not hearing Lucius or not caring. “Thinks he can brand me and toss me in the Narrows and be done with me.”

Lucius’ eyes widened at the word _brand_ and his eyes went again to the bandage on Ed’s hand. Surely he didn’t mean literally…

“He thinks everyone will just quietly accept that he’s basically immortal and go on business as usual.” His pacing was reaching a fever pitch. “He keeps refusing to acknowledge my transformation, but that works to my advantage--he thinks he’s dealing with Ed, when he’s really dealing with the Riddler.” With the proclamation of his title, he gave a little flourish and Lucius threw back the rest of his drink in one go.

“Can I take that to mean you’ve got a plan for how to proceed?” he asked, throat still burning.

Ed’s eyes had that strange glow that Lucius had come to realise meant someone was probably going to die, and he considered trying to detail Ed. Still, though Ed claimed to appreciate Lucius’...friendship, he didn’t doubt Ed would pull the trigger if Lucius threatened his plans or his freedom.

“That symbol is the key.” Ed waved towards the paper with his gun. “Somewhere, someone knows the meaning, and I’m going to find it. But there’s no saying I can’t carry out a little experiment in the meantime.”

A cold feeling settled over Lucius as the meaning of the words sunk in. “Ed, you’re not going to try to kill Oswald again.”

“Of course not,” Ed said, and Lucius only had a second to savour the relief before he continued, “he can’t die. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be hurt.” He spun on his heel and gave Lucius a bright smile. “Thank you, Foxy. Your council is, as ever, most appreciated.”

It probably wasn’t worth pointing out that he hadn’t actually offered much assistance in the matter, so Lucius just gave him a tired smile, and waited as Ed let him out the front door before reaching for his phone and dialling Jim’s number. Best to let him know to prepare in case Ed started a damn war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have already known where this was heading before, and some of you may know for certain after this chapter. If you want to try to solve the mystery along with Ed, it would be rather easy--there are clues aplenty, starting with the title of the fic and each chapter, and of course with the information held within this chapter. If you'd prefer to be surprised, I'd suggest not looking any further into the symbol.

**Author's Note:**

> Though this was originally conceived of as a fusion, I decided to mostly strip away any overt references to the source material which has inspired this fic. Primarily to make it more accessible to those who are unfamiliar with said material, but also to preserve the mystery. I will reveal it towards the end of the fic, but those who are familiar with the source material will likely pick up on the hints of it far earlier.
> 
> When I write fusions, I do so with the intention that anyone reading the fic will be able to understand what's going on through world-building. With this particular fusion, I do believe that unless you know the source material, you won't even know a fusion is happening. It will merely read as Gotham with a magical realism twist. I hope you all enjoy!


End file.
